


Interesting Strangers

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Original Work
Genre: Banter, Bar Room Brawl, Box of Chains, Established Relationship, F/F, Grinding, Roleplay, Science Fiction, Space Opera, Spanking, Tribadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-11 11:52:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13523700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: A stranger, a bar fight, and a good time. Just another night on Phoenix Station.





	Interesting Strangers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [worstcommander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/worstcommander/gifts).



“Nice buzz-cut. Your wife let you leave the house like that?” A familiar stranger slides into the empty bar stool, boots wedged on the rungs and knees wide. Her mouth falls open with an easy smile that twists the scar edging her lips, and puts a chipped front tooth on prominent display. Her voice has the faint burr of someone from the asteroid belts, barely audible under the Cantopop playing from the deliberately anachronistic jukebox.

Val takes a long sip of her beer before answering, eyes locked with the other woman’s as she swallows. She then slices her thumbnail along the edge of the Tsingtao label, peeling it slow. She makes sure her wedding band glints, catching blue and silver in the dim lights of the bar.

“My wife,” she drawls, “ _loves_ my buzz-cut. She did it herself.” She drops the label in a sad heap of condensation, grinning.

“Sounds like a nice lady. Why’d you leave her at home?” the woman asks. She unzips her coveralls with one long, smooth motion. The effect is somewhat ruined as the shoulders snag against her biceps, and she shrugs her way out of the sleeves with a sheepish grin before tying them around her waist. Her grimy tank top may have started its career factory-white, but is now a fog of greys beneath patches of rust and black. Val pegs a few as grease stains, one’s probably blood, and one interesting singe as some sort of plasma discharge.

Val takes another sip, just enough to wet her lips. She’s spent the better part of a decade out of the Sol System, and it’s still the little things that bring her home. In a galaxy far, far away, they still serve Chinese beer. “Who said she's at home? She told me to go out and meet—” Here she turns, allowing her knee to bump the other woman’s thigh, leaning forward to press between her legs. “— interesting strangers.” She smirks. “What’s your name?”

“Jane.” It’s a lie, and Val _knows_ it’s a lie, but it’s said with bright eyes and a cockiness that might pass for confidence.

Val raises an eyebrow. “GI Jane?”

‘Jane’ rolls her eyes, slapping Val’s shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, yuk it up. And what’s _your_ name?”

The lie comes easily. “Cassidy.”

“As in Butch?”

“At least we’re both movie stars, so how’s that?”

Jane waggles her eyebrows, putting her hand on Val’s thigh, halfway to the knee. Val flexes, the muscle rippling beneath a generous layer of padding, and is gratified by Jane’s widening grin.

“The only kinda movie I want to make with you is a porno,” Jane breathes.

Val snickers, pulling Jane’s hand into hers and tapping the pale line on one finger. “And what about _your_ wife? How does she feel about you chatting up strangers in a bar?”

Jane bumps closer, knees framing Val’s thigh, as if she might rub up and grind on her, right here and now. Rut themselves into a heaving mess on top of the stools. “She thinks it’s fucking _hot_.”

Val leans in, closing what little distance is between them, Jane’s breath hot against her mouth—

And then Val’s pilot crashes into the bar, terminating their parabolic flight from across the room. Val barely rescues her Tsingtao as the bar nuts go flying, a cashew smacking her square between the eyes.

“Lovebirds, a little fucking _help_!” the newcomer bellows.

Jane grimaces, yanking them upright. “Who’d you piss off this time, Riley?”

Riley spits pink foam. It does nothing to improve the already-sticky floor. “Didn’t do nothin’!”

The woman who threw Riley disagrees, punching them in the jaw and sending them somersaulting over the bar. The server-droid evades the aerodynamic pilot with an absent-minded swivel.

Val rapidly calculates the satisfaction of watching Riley getting their ass kicked against the necessity of Riley shuttling her ass on the next drop.

“Goddammit, I just want _one_ date where we don’t wind up in a bar fight—” she hisses, grabbing Riley’s assailant and spinning her into Jane’s fist.

Jane drops her like a rock. “I dunno, I think it’s romantic,” she says, blowing her knuckles with the casual air of an Old West gunslinger.

“Yeah, romantic,” Riley mumbles. “Thanks, Val…”

Jane fans herself with one hand, wrist limp. Bats her eyelashes. “And here I thought you were Calamity! Are you _lying_ to me, stranger?”

“ _Cassidy_ , and you’re just some stranger I met at the bar. That I’m gonna fuck. So why not?” Val challenges.

“You guys are fucking _weird_ ,” Riley moans, climbing their way up the bar.

Val rolls her eyes. “Riley, gimme your comm. I’m gonna punch a cab for you.”

Jane rolls her eyes and crosses her arms, tapping her foot as Val punches the cab service from Riley’s comm unit. Val hesitates, then tips the server-droid. “Make sure they actually get in the cab, okay? And give the knocked-out lady a beer when she gets up.”

“Whose side are you _on_?” Riley wails.

“Mine,” Val says firmly. She drains what's left of her beer, then goes home with Jane.

‘Home’ is a small apartment, bare in the way of spaces meant to hold _stuff_ rather than life. There’s a perfunctory cross-stitch in the entryway, reading, “ _God bless this mess_ ,” with a crude rocket-launcher painstakingly stitched beneath it. A stack of unread novels, a kitchen overflowing with takeout trays, and a single overstuffed couch complete the scene of blissful married life.

Jane sighs happily, undoing her boots and kicking them off as she enters. Val does the same, tucking in the laces out of long habit. Jane struts her way to the bedroom without waiting for directions, casting a come-hither look over her shoulder. “C’mon, stranger, let’s fuck.”

Val waits until Jane turns back, then sweeps up from behind to tackle her into the bed. Jane squeals, wedging her knee under in an attempt to flip Val over, but Val’s ready for it, squirming and using Jane’s own momentum to pin her wrists into the blankets.

“Don’t wanna fuck a stranger in our bed,” she growls. “Wanna fuck my wife, _Miranda_.”

‘Jane’ scrunches her nose, gagging. “Oh come on, Val! It’s one thing if you don’t wanna use the fake names, it’s another to use _that_.”

“Wanna fuck my wife, Randy,” Val grumbles, kissing Randy’s cheek, then neck, then collarbone. She drags her teeth along the clavicle, gnaws and sucks as Randy hisses.

“Weren’t having fun?” Randy asks. She runs her tongue over her lips, and licks her chipped tooth. Her brows knit.

“Naw, was having fun. But it was _foreplay_ , chatting up a stranger in the bar. Now that we’re home, I wanna fuck my wife.” Val punctuates this with another bite, teeth denting skin and making Randy swear as she rocks forward, back, grinding onto Val’s thigh. Val nuzzles into Randy’s neck, the sweet spot behind the ear where Randy smells like fresh sweat and stale bubblegum. Randy gave up smoking years ago— no shuttles would let her smoke on board— and ended up trading one habit for another. Val likes this smell better anyway.

“You’re gonna _maul_ me,” Randy whines, high-pitched and teasing.

Val chuckles, easing up to land a whisper-kiss on Randy’s nose. “You want sweet and gentle?”

Randy cocks her head, considering. Then shakes her head. “Nope.”

“Good, ‘cause I want to fuck you ‘til you can’t stand.”

They take turns undressing each other, though ‘turns’ is too orderly a term for the way they steal opportunities from one another. Randy’s coveralls are easiest, untying the arms and wriggling her legs out, and when she tries to unfasten Val’s pants, Val manages to work Randy’s boxers off at the same time, both of them falling over in a heap of clothes and laughter before Val slips a hand under Randy’s shirt, rucking it up.

Randy struggles, but it’s token effort, easily thwarted as Val flips her over and tugs the shirt over her eyes, effectively blinding her. The outcome’s no surprise to either of them; Val’s beaten Randy in hand-to-hand nine times out of ten. Val’s always been more muscular, square-bodied rather than Randy’s pleasing roundness, with good shoulders and melon-crushing thighs.

(That’s a story they tell sometimes, over beer. They’d met at a watermelon-splitting contest, all the contestants blindfolded and trying to break a melon with a wooden stick. After, they’d gone into nontraditional ways of breaking watermelons, and Randy knew it was lust from the moment she sucked pink flesh from Val’s thigh.)

“Not fair, I want to see you,” Randy groans.

Val snorts, but tugs the shirt off and drops it off the edge of the bed. “Can you take off your sports bra? I want to see your tits.”

Randy giggle-snorts, breaking into a grunt as she works it off. “So romantic.”

“Hey, I played along with your ‘strangers meeting in a bar,’” Val says severely. “And I bought a whole tub of buko pandan, just for you. It’s in the fridge.”

“If that’s not love, I don’t know what love is…” Randy sing-sighs, propping herself on her elbows. “Really? Just for me?”

“Yep. Got two tubs. One for me, one for you. Even though I know you’re gonna finish yours and eat mine.” Val pinches Randy’s nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger until the areola twists, until Randy groans and wraps her hand around the back of Val’s head, nails scraping the stubble on her scalp.

“Sounds like you’re expecting me to be bad,” Randy says, gasping her way into a laugh.

“You always are. Want a spanking?”

Randy laughs again. “What’s this? Pre-emptive punishment for what you _think_ I’m gonna do?”

“Nah, it’s for what I _know_ you’re gonna do. If you want it.” Val releases Randy’s nipple, giving it a quick kiss before sitting up, feet flat on the floor and knees spread. She pats her thigh, and Randy immediately squirms over so her ass is propped up in the air, belly spilling over Val’s lap and elbows braced on the bed.

It’s an old routine, and Val doesn’t need prompting before starting with baby smacks, just the way Randy likes. Little pats with her fingers, barely more than percussive taps as she traces a semicircle over the curve of Randy’s ass, then back again. Little pops of impact, just enough to make the flesh jiggle, to warm up and familiarize herself with the spots that make Randy giggle, make Randy moan, or make Randy squirm against Val’s thigh. Randy’s so vulnerable like this, willingly so— naked and ass-up, compared to Val’s state of semi-dress. Val briefly considers whether to remove her own boxers and shirt, but dismisses it as she starts laying down the spanks.

The trick to a good spank is to keep the wrist steady, to swing from the shoulder rather than the elbow. The tiny wrist-flicks are cute and all, at least at the beginning, but Randy’d get bored to tears if she never got anything without more _oomph_ to it. So Val slowly ramps up the intensity, keeping her blows concentrated on the thick, fleshy curve of Randy’s ass. She keeps her other hand on Randy’s back, fingers straddling the spine, where she can feel Randy’s anticipation coil, then relax. Randy’s sinking into it, loose and easy, until Val brings back her hand and lays the first hard smack with the flat of her palm, hard enough to rock Randy forward, spilling her chin into the covers and making the other woman swear.

“Too much?” Val asks.

Randy pushes herself up, resting her face on her fists. “No. That was good. ‘Bout that hard. No harder.”

Val nods— not that Randy can see it— and says, “Okay.” She keeps going, alternating cheeks. High, high. Low, low. The second strike on freshly-spanked skin is always the worst, and she leans her weight on Randy to keep her from squirming when those blows land.

They’re the worst, but also the best, some of the few that render Randy wordless and incoherent as she sobs into the blankets, somewhere between frustration and relief. Randy’s thighs are smeared slick, arousal dripping its way down and filling the air with sex.

Finally, the end’s signalled not by Randy, but by Val’s own hand. Skin on skin creates its own impact, and Val’s palm is sore. She pats Randy’s side, prompting her wife to crawl off her lap and collapse in a boneless heap.

“Still want to get you off, babe. How do you want it? Fingers? Tongue?”

“Thigh,” Randy groans, still somewhere in that deep space that Val can never quite touch. “I want you on top of me.”

Val has to roll Randy over, one hand under Randy’s shoulder and the other at her hip, then settles herself on top. She kisses Randy slowly, lips tracing the corners of Randy’s mouth before tugging the lower lip between her own. Her thigh presses at the hot cleft between Randy’s legs, where Randy practically gushes, and Randy makes some minute adjustment of her hip, settling down so Val’s perfectly aligned as she starts rocking. It’s a full-body lovemaking, more than ‘just’ thigh on clit, as Val’s shirt sticks between them, damp with sweat, and Randy squeezes a hand on Val’s bicep as Val kisses her, and kisses her, and kisses her, because if there’s one thing Val wants to keep doing in this life it’s to keep kissing Randy—

Randy comes with a gasp, a cry, then a clench, her knees squeezing and her teeth drawn together, biting Val’s mouth. Hard enough for Val to taste bubblegum and copper, and Randy kisses apologies but Val rolls back with a laugh.

“Feeling good?” Val asks.

Randy stretches her arms overhead, arching her body luxuriously. “Mhm. Sorry about biting you.”

“No worries. Want buko pandan?”

They eat their dessert in bed, Randy not bothering to get dressed and Val not bothering to undress. When they kiss, they taste of coconut and herbal sweetness. The news plays as they eat, and Val snorts as they announce the New Hong Kong colony’s first durian harvest.

“Phoenix Station has already banned imports, citing it a public nuisance…” the newscaster reads, tattooed eyebrows fixed in permanent surprised interest.

Randy snickers, spooning Val’s dessert into her own mouth. “Betcha fifty creds that we’ll see ‘em on the black market next week.”

Val rolls her eyes, passing the tub to Randy. “Pfft. You think I’m stupid?”

“I dunno, you _did_ marry me,” Randy teases.

“Marrying you was the best goddamn decision of my life,” Val says firmly, and she kisses Randy to prove it.


End file.
